Manic Monday (Pull)

Manic Monday Word of, well, Monday: Pull

You're at a bar. Not alone, because that would be a little sad, but with a group of lads you call friends. You've all got drinks in front of you and some of you are chatting animatedly. Not feeling interested with the current topic, your mind wanders, as do your eyes, to the bar.

Sat on a bar stool is the most beautiful girl you've seen in a long time. She has long, smooth, sexy legs and her cropped, black hair falls raggedy to her shoulders. Her eyes, when you catch sight of them, are deep and soulful. Her smile: infectious. But she isn't looking at you, staring into space instead.

You dream that she is your lover for a brief moment, before turning back to your friends. They have moved onto a more interesting topic now, so you add your thoughts to it. Then you see something in the corner of your eye.

She looked at you. You swear she was just watching you, but when you turn to check she had looked away. Back to your friends conversation you go, but more wary of your peripherals now.

It happens again. It feels like her eyes are on you, but when you turn they are suddenly on a non-existent something in the air in front of her. You watch her now, hoping she will turn and look at you.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

Your friend's voice brings you back to reality and presents you with your first dilemma. Do you admit your lust for the siren at bar? If you do, and she wasn't really looking at you, you're going to go down in flames and your friends will be their roasting metaphorical marshmallows.

Before answering, you glance back at the girl. She is looking at you! You make eye contact, she smiles wryly and turns away, blushing. Then she brushes her hair with her hand. You remember reading somewhere that organising hair is a sign of fondness, a psychological tic that subconsciously means she is trying to look nice for you.

Oh, what the hell! You tell your friends, making it sound as manly as possible. You hold your hands out in front of you and make 'Cor!' noises, to imply you like her for her breasts. After all, your friends will appreciate this more than her soulful eyes.

They all goad you into taking action, nudging you and miming rude gestures. Made confident by their positive attitudes and the alcohol swimming through your blood stream you down your pint, the perfect excuse to get close to her.

On the short walk to her, only a couple of metres, the adrenaline kicks in, along with the panic. You worry your breath may smell, but there is no way to check now; your friends are watching. Hoping like hell that the beer hides any really nasty smells, you stand next to her at the bar.

"Hi." You say, hiding your fear well.
"Hi." She replies, a little bashful.

You don't know what you expected her to reply, but suddenly you don't know what to say next. The cat has well and truly got your tongue. Luckily, the bartender asks you what you'd like the drink. You know the answer to that question: a beer. Being a gentleman, and in need of a conversation starter, you ask her what she would like. She lowers her head gracefully and asks for some apple alcopop.

The act of buying her a drink loosens both your tongues, and the conversation flows quite smoothly for strangers. You find out her name is Fiona and that she's studying psychology at the same uni as you. She likes cats but loves dogs. She comes from London, and feels a bit odd about country life. Her younger brother is six next week and she is going to be her sister's bridesmaid next summer.

However, you are only half listening to this spiel, nodding at the relevant intervals, because in the back of your mind you are analysing everything. The way she is cradling her bottle, the direction and angle she is tilting her head, how often she looks in your eyes; all of these are signs, in your mind, guiding you to whether she thinks you're an idiot or interesting.

You'd like to look to your friends, the same way ice-skaters would look to judges at the end of a routine, but you have your back to them and to turn away from Julia - no, damn - Fiona would just be rude.

You lean your hand on the bar, trying to act casual, and lean on hers accidentally. She pulls away, as if your hand was a red-hot poker. Oh, damn! That mean she doesn't like you, right? She wouldn't pull away if she thought you were sexy.

But she puts her hand back, resting lightly on top of yours. She squeezes a little, and looks up at you with her head bowed slightly. Either she's interested or she's drunk; either way you're happy.

The whole conversation reaches a new level now. You discuss the more intimate details of yourselves: your hopes, dreams, fantasies. You step carefully though, not wanting to embarrass yourself. Yes, you have a fantasy about Marge Simpson and some PVC, but now is not the time to unveil it. You have to be sexy enough so as not to seem boring, but not too 'sexy' to come across as a dirty man.

You manage this, without really know how, and she leans in close. She's going home, but doesn't want to take a taxi alone. Will you be her knight and take care of her?

Of course you will! Whilst she's in the toilet you race to your friends and immerse yourself in their applause, congratulations and high-fives. You're back at the bar before her, so she doesn't have a clue.

As she's leaving she stumbles a little and this small gesture makes you wonder how much she has had to drink. Are you just taking advantage of a drunk girl? Does it count if you're also drunk?

She gets into the taxi first and sits in the middle. Good sign, you think, or bad sign if she doesn't realise where she is sitting. You climb in next to her, close the door and she gives the taxi driver her address.

You don't know how you end up kissing. One moment you're sat next to her, then your hands find each other, then your eyes and, the next thing you know, you're locked at the lips. She tastes nice. Like apples.

You wonder how well you're doing. Should you use more tongue? Or less? Do girls really like it when you chew softly on their bottom lip? You open your eyes to see if she's reacting. She has her eyes closed, so you assume you must be doing something right.

The taxi reaches its destination as she has one hand holding onto the front of your jeans. She pays the driver with the other hand and doesn't bother grabbing her change before dragging you out of the car.

You spend at least five minutes kissing on her doorstep before she even thinks of searching for her keys. Sure, it may be cold, but that just gives you an excuse to hold her closer, your hand fiddling playfully with the bottom of her top.

She lets you in and the door closes, not only behind you but on the story as well. There are some things that should remain private. At least until you see your friend's tomorrow night.

But, and here is the point and the part where the start makes sense to the middle, after all of that worry, nervousness, uncertainty the whole thing gets summed up in the English language as this:

"You've pulled!"

As if the whole thing was the equivalent of grabbing her by the arm and pulling her outside.

Sometimes language confuses me.

:S

http://furubalunchbox.deviantart.com/art/Flirt-70832689

Train Related Miscellany

For the attention of current or potential train station designers: If you have a platform 4a and 4b, don’t still also have a platform 4. It doesn’t make logical sense and it leaves people who have no knowledge of this fact running with heavy suitcases to avoid missing their train.

* * *

In happier news, I was afraid of trains. I know, this doesn’t seem ‘happier’ like it was advertised, but if you’d allowed me to continue instead of being impatient and pedantic. Sheesh!

As I was saying, I was afraid of trains. We’re not talking a full-on phobia here, merely a disconcerting feeling whenever traveling via said transport. I don’t know what it was, perhaps the noise, or the shaking, or the feeling of being herded like cattle, or the small issue that if the thing hits a rock, we’d all perish in a huge fireball.

But three years of university, and the need to use trains to get to and from work every weekend, kind of cured me. I learnt the Zen art of zoning out and concentrating on a book or my music or just the inside maze of my head so that I didn’t mind the shaking or the noise or feeling like a sheep.

Today, however, I got to experience a moment that has secured my lack of fear in my mind. I stood, not out of choice but out of being squished, next to the door of the carriage, with the window open. Three years ago this would have been fairly close to the pinnacle of fear for me. Not only would I have to worry about de-railing stones, but also of being sucked out of the window to crash painfully and fatally to a blood-soaked, mangled death.

But all I thought was ‘cool’. That was it. I watched the world whiz by at train-speed and pretended I was hovering backwards for a short period and did not think a simple bad, negative, scaredy cat thing.

I’m no longer afraid of trains. Next up: Roller Coasters.

* * *
This is Jessica’s first time on a train. She seems to be coping quite well, but mainly because the train has kindly put into place plug sockets which allow her power. They have yet to install some kind of Internet connection though, so whilst this is being typed during travel, it will be uploaded at home.

* * *
I also think I’ve started a laptop craze. It seems that I have subconsciously granted people permission to open up laptops and work. Three people have looked across at me before laptopping themselves. There is a forth man with a laptop bag. I’ll get him!

* * *

Whilst Jessica is coping well with train travel, Wilson the penguin just won’t shut up! He’s just sitting on top of my bag, squawking away miserably. I feel people think I’ve stolen a bird from somewhere.

To worry them a little, I’ve begun kicking my bag hard before looking up at them with apologetic eyes and saying “He was a present”.

* * *
I have come to the conclusion, not necessarily today but it is today I will express it, that the general public really have misplaced anger issues whilst traveling via train. I understand that whoever was responsible for booking seats on this train has seriously overbooked. I can even appreciate that being packed like sardines next to complete strangers isn’t most people’s preferable way to travel.

What I don’t get is the anger. What is going to be solved by being grumpy? It isn’t like it is fault of the people currently digging into your stomach, so I fail to see why people glare at them or react harshly.

Surely, a more Zen-like (and I am aware this is the second time Zen has been mentioned in this piece, but it seems riding public transport requires a lot of it) approach is needed. Yes, we are trapped together but the key word is ‘we’. There should be some camaraderie surely. Like blitzed London (on a MUCH smaller scale), we should be looking out for one another, what with being in the same boat and all.

We should laugh at the whole thing together, shaking our fists in the air at ‘society’ and the state of the government and reminiscing that things were much better when we were kids or would be better if we were in charge. Isn’t that what adults do?

In an attempt to support this kind of behavior, I took to rolling my eyes in a ‘Gosh! Look at the situation we are currently in. This will certainly make good anecdotal fodder tomorrow. Isn’t life odd?’ way.

One girl returned the gesture and for a brief moment we had a ‘thing’, a connection over the gulf of being strangers. Everyone else tried their damn hardest to avoid eye-contact all together, and I was left rolling my eyes to the air. And that just made me look like I had a medical problem.

People need to chill out!

:D

http://h-kon.deviantart.com/art/Trains-of-2006-37165197

“Yeah, That Guy Did Really Well In That Sport Thing With The Ball And The Players And Stuff”

During a meal (a forth in celebration of my birthday) the conversation turned to sports, as conversations occasionally do.

“Did you hear that What’s-His-Face has been sold to That-Team? He’s bound to do them proud” is pretty much what was said. Then someone across the table probably said “Yeah, he’s a miracle with a ball and his feet are so awesomely feet-like” and people will nod their heads like they understand, and the second speaker will look smug because they have made a ‘good point’.

Let me say right now, I don’t have a clue what you are talking about! This may not be particularly true though. I understand that What’s-His Face plays football and that yes, he does have feet. Yet, I fail to see the importance of his moving somewhere else or the importance of him in general. He plays a sport!

I’m not a complete sport-snob. I will quite happily sit down in front of a football, rugby or (on very rare occasions) cricket match when my country is playing. I can understand the nuances of a good football team, how the ball seems to never leave their feet. I admire rugby players and the way they all move as if part of a single organism.

I will hang on every move or pass or shot, and I will feel elated when we win or devastated when we lose.

I even support a football team. Only I feel that I’m letting them down because if someone comes to me and says “Liverpool lost last night” I can barely muster a frown. I just don’t care enough.

This apathy, in any other areas, would usually be fine. But unfortunately ‘m apathetic towards sport and I was born a boy. Because in our society, boys who don’t know each other talk about sport.

I can understand that, because it’s the safe bet. You can ask “Who do you support?” and if the strange boy agrees you have common ground and if they disagree you can carefully joke about how rubbish their team is and feel like old drinking buddies. A whole bunch safer than trying to find common ground with religion or opinions on abortion.

I can do the first bit. I support Liverpool, as briefly mentioned above. It is on the follow-up questions I get stuck.

“What do you think of their new signing?”
“Who’s that?”
“Joe Footballer.”
“Never heard of him”
“What about that goal at the weekend? That was awesome.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“You didn’t see it did you?”
“No. Sorry.”
“You don’t really support Liverpool do you?”

But I do, in an odd, non-caring way. I just gain no joy from keeping up with the latest transfers and watching every match my team play. It sometimes seems that people must have spent hours finding things out to quote the knowledge they often quote during these conversations.

I’ve managed to go unnoticed by just being very vague when discussing things of this sort. Some good phrases for anyone in the same boat to learn are “Yeah, that was a good goal. I can’t believe it went in.” or “Yeah they lost, but they weren’t really playing as a team.” Works every time.

But look, talk to me about films or television. Talk to me about music. Hell, talk to me about the upcoming American election, or whether you believe that Jesus is your savior or how you think we could solve the problem of global warning. Hell, as long as you come to the table with an open-mind, we can connect that way.

Just because I’m a boy doesn’t mean I like sport. So I’m left, out for a meal, nodding my head and making agreeable noises instead. I use one of my stock phrases: “I can’t believe his old team got rid of What’s-His-Face.”

Now perhaps if I nod hard enough I’ll look like I care and I can be one of the lads.

:D

PS. A thought has just occurred to me; Perhaps this is why I’m friends with more girls than boys.

http://neko-mreow.deviantart.com/art/Soccer-Rabbit-63874698

Five On Friday: Best Numbers

Since I can't let the 'Five on Friday' theme end after one attempt, here is the next in the line. The five best numbers. It may seem like a cop-out, like something that won't take all that much time or effort. This is because it is technically Saturday and I'm technically hungover, so my brain technically doesn't work as well as it should and I can only technically recall a small amount of words from my memory banks and must technically use them anyway even if they don't technically fit.

So anyway...

21
My lucky number, and therefore fronting the list. I was born on the 21st, am now 21 and have a combined finger/toe count of 21. One of the above isn't true.

Pi
Any number named after a foodstuff is alright with me. I'm also really intrigued as to whether they can find an end to it, or whether it really will go on forever and ever.

42
The Meaning of Life.

2
There is something strangely, simplistically cool about this number. It kind of seems cute in an odd way. If I was going to pick a number I was most like, it would be two.

7
Seven Dwarfs, Seven Samurai, Severus Snape; it seems when the number seven is involved you have a force for good. Therefore, it makes the list.

Runners-Up
20 - New lucky number or just a reminder of how young I used to be? The jury is still out.
3 - It IS the magic number. Or a crowd.
101 - I often admire words that look the same forwards and backwards.

:D

http://johnshine.deviantart.com/art/The-Numbers-48965215

Why Dissertations Are A Waste Of Time On A Film Course

It is an oft quoted fact of the film industry that it is not what you know, but who you know. It seems that whoever you speak to currently employed in the world of film, from a producer to a runner, they will quote you the same line. It isn’t what you know. It is WHO you know.

There is only once place in which this idiom is conveniently forgotten: film school. It seems that there, a place where students should be fully prepared for what they will be coming across later in their careers, a great importance is placed on the ability to analyze the films of some obscure director during the period of some time to a little bit later down the line, in essay form.

Let me take a moment to clarify what we are not talking about here. What we are NOT talking about is a ‘Media Studies’ course. If a person found themselves on such a course, they would have no right to complain about writing an essay discussing American Culture as depicted in the films of John Doe. It is right there in the title; the study of media. I’d go as far as saying that they’d be spending ninety percent of their time writing essays on films, as well as radio and print media. But I would also expect that over ninety percent of the people on these courses won’t actually go into the film industry, instead getting careers in PR and other such enterprises.

But if we aren’t talking about ‘Media Studies’, let us look at the title of what we are discussing: ‘Film and Moving Image Production’. Space, and usage of the word count, could be spent analyzing the word choice of the course, and yet I fear that this will demean you as the reader and myself as a writer. I’m sure we all understand what each of the individual words mean and that, even though the words are in a slightly different order, it depicts the production of films and other means of moving image. The title is a simple one, which is why I find it odd that certain modules appear in the syllabus. For example, ‘History of Film’, studied in the first year, seems to have just taken the word ‘film’ from the course title and run with it, never looking back to see if it is really that significant. Instead of a look at how to go about making films (or moving images), the module instead treats the student to what happened when in the history of film. This seems like a module that should be reserved for a ‘History’ course or the pre-mentioned ‘Media Studies’, not a study in the production of a movie.

However, it is the dissertation that is the king of these modules, so strikingly out-of-place that I often wonder how the course hasn’t been sued under the trade description act. Having read many books on the subject and spoken to many people currently working in the industry, I have yet to come across a single mention of the importance of essay writing in a successful film career. And don’t get me wrong, I have tried. I’ve scoured the web for some kind of mention, even the briefest of sentences, which tells me that what I really need to know how to do to be the next Spielberg is the ability to analyze the themes in the latest Lynch movie. At the time of writing, my search has been fruitless.

It seems to me that the dissertation is an old university tradition that doesn’t seem to get the hint that he isn’t really wanted, or needed, anymore, particularly on a course that is supposed to be predominantly practical. It is there to test the ability of the student to research and analyze text before presenting it in a reasoned and well-written way. In this way, it tests the research, analytical and writing skills of the person submitted the dissertation. On another course, where I’m sure these skills are prized, this is a very good way to grade a student on what they have learnt in their three year run. On a ‘Film Production’ course, these skills mean close to nothing.

Before I continue, let me first address an argument that I feel could be used against my previous statement. Yes, in the field of director, analytical skills can be of use. It is very important for a director to be able to analyze a script and break it down into what is important and what isn’t. Also, in the field of screenwriter, research skills and writing skills tend to go down well. However, my point lies in the fact that essays are being asked for, instead of scripts, and these are two totally different beasts. Someone perfectly qualified to write a screenplay may find it difficult to write their thoughts down in a ‘suitable’ essay style and would be marked down for it. Likewise, the analysis of a script and of a critical film study are different skills, and I find it very difficult to understand why a student should be marked down for not managing the latter, when it is the former that they will be required to do in the future. And what of a cinematographer, someone who will never really need these three skill later down the line? Is it fair that someone perfectly capable of lighting a scene beautifully be marked down because he doesn’t know how a more famous DOP lit his beautiful scene?

It isn’t as if dissertations are the be-all-and-end-all of third year marking. There are many courses that do away with them completely or offer students an alternative choice. Many courses acknowledge that the skills needed in a dissertation are not those needed for a later career in mathematics, events management, etc. So once again I must implore an answer to my question: why are we still being asked to take part in such out-dated, pointless folly?

There are so many other alternatives to the dissertation. In a brief five minutes brainstorm I can come up with four superior ideas, which can only leave me to surmise that whoever settled on the dissertation decision didn’t even put that much time into thinking about it.

First, the obvious: a screenplay. It remains a written document, something easy for marking and handing in. Whilst there are issues with the subjectivity of the marker in terms of story, there are things which can easily be described as right and wrong. Layout, for example, can either be done correctly or incorrectly and could be marked accordingly. Pacing, grammar, writing style could all be marked. When and how each of the characters are introduced. How clunky the dialogue is. All of these could make up what a potential screenplay writing student could be marked on.

Another option, skating along the lines of the last, is analysis of a screenplay. Whilst this comes close to an actual dissertation the key difference is that it is relevant to the course, not plucked from the annuls of university history seemingly at random. A student could get marked on their ability to recognize changes of act, break down dialogue choices and identify themes within the text.

Of course I understand that not everybody on a ‘filmmaking’ course wants to be a screenwriter or do something related to those fields. So let me move into something more practical: an exam day. For example, let us say that a student wants to be a director. They could receive a script a week before the day, a scene chosen by the staff to specifically test the skills needed later in life. On the actual day, the student is provided with actors and told to shoot the scene. They are then marked on their ability to do so; by communicating with actors, the crew, picking shots and remaining adaptable. Several tutors are there to watch them work and grade accordingly. In the perfect world, the tutors would be on set during the shooting of the major productions, but since that seems impossible, this may be the next best thing. The student could then be asked to provide a written, or a spoken, account of the decisions they chose and the reasons behind them, just in case this wasn’t obvious on the actual day.

The same principles, with slight changes, could be applied to each other the other specialties. A production design student could be given a certain budget and asked to build a set to suit certain needs. A cinematography student may be asked to light a scene in several different ways. It would even be possible for the latter to light the set of the former. There are arguments that this may be unfair, one student relying on another for their grades, but that is what the industry is like. If one person isn’t pulling their weight, other people suffer.

Another argument against the above idea is that it would require a lot of time from the tutors. Well, tough. The tutors and the course should work around us, for it is us that are paying for both to survive. If a better solution to dissertations is available, but it requires more man hours, hire more people! Besides, I’d like to hope that a tutor is going to spend at least two hours marking my paper, so it wouldn’t be so much of a stretch to use that time differently.

A radically different, and more organized, work experience scheme would also work as a superior alternative to the dissertation. In an industry that rewards actual real experience, why does a film course not have the relevant contacts to provide work placements for students? A simple marking scheme, provided to the person taking care of the student, could be used, but in my opinion the fact that the student has spent a day/week/month on a film set is vastly superior to being able to write about what emotions a film evokes.

My point, no matter how strung out it is currently seeming, is that there are other, better, options to the dissertation. Options that don’t leave me looking at the tutors as crazy people for even thinking for a moment that an essay is at all relevant on our course or in the real world. These are options that would have me thinking that perhaps this course did have my back, did care about me and wasn’t populated by a succession of wannabe filmmakers that didn’t quite make it and now feel bitter towards the younger generation for their looks and talent and starry-eyed, untainted view of the world.

But, of course, these options must remain fictional, at least until the end of my time at University. I will eventually have to re-open my half-finished (and half is being generous) dissertation and keep on trucking. Because it isn’t very often that things are changed by the one voice shouting out from the crowd. Even if everyone else agrees, if they hand in their papers on the hand-in date, then this will just come across as the bitter, ranting of someone who is just fed up of staring at a blank page and wondering ‘What is the point?!’. Which I guess is what this is.

Damn.

:(

http://betoman.deviantart.com/art/filmmaking-52843625

Graphic Novel (Unfinished)

This tale takes place in the summer of 2007.

It was a laid back time. A time I had chance to kick back and read a lot of comics. Then a thought struck me. If they can write comics, why can't I?

The idea led me as far as speaking to an artist and bandying around ideas. That led to "Journeys with the Imaginary Man", the first part of which was going to be called "Alexis in Wonderland".

It told the story of Alexis, a sixteen year old girl whose Imaginary friend comes back to drag her into the world of dreams. It seems that she is the daughter of the Sandman, and very evil forces are after her.

Since you are not seeing the comic on shelves near you, it can only be surmised that it never got completed. Not even a page. Above was a character sheet for Alexis. There was also a color drawing of her and the Imaginary Man, but they seem lost on some hard drive somewhere.

Oh, and the teddy in the picture is called Lancelot.

I've recently come across my outline for the whole thing, hidden deep in my e-mails. Since I'm supposed to be working on my dissertation, I'm sure I'll be working on the graphic novel soon.

Look forward to seeing it in shops near you soon!

:D

Crimson Blood

I found this whilst trawling through old files on my USB pen. It's a short story, written two years ago. It was sort of an offshoot from a task in a writing lesson.

Some of it I like, such as the different voices for the two characters. Other bits I find cheesy or on the nose or I feel just don't work. But I present it to you unedited, apart from a few spelling errors corrected.

Enjoy!

*   *   *

Crimson blood drips from my hands. Now though they just didn’t feel like my hands anymore. I feel like a stranger, staring at someone else’s blood soaked digits. It really is a strange feeling, probably comes from seeing our own mortality in front of us. We, humans, seem so complex, so unique and yet all we are is flesh and blood. Flesh and blood that can be shred with a sword, shot with a bullet. Life is so fragile, like a thin thread dangling, just waiting for some evil force to take out a pair of evil force scissors and *snip*. Why didn’t I even think about this before? Why had it not crossed my mind? Maybe, if I’d known, I would have lived life more fully. I guess all people who deal with loss say that. Truth be told, I would have continued in the way I was going. But now I’ve lost it all. Helen lies before me.

*   *   *

“Come on! I’d like to eat sometime in the next century. You know, human biology and all”

I smile. I know that he is only joking. He does this every time we go out. He knows that nothing he’ll say will make me speed up. Maybe he likes that about me. I like his patience. It’s always good to have a husband who’ll allow you several hours to prepare yourself for a night on the town.

“It seems to me that ‘maybe’ pretty much always means ‘no’” I sing louder than the last line. He knows what my singing means. He’ll probably sit and watch something on the TV. Whatever keeps him quiet.

It’s not as if tonight is any big anniversary or a birthday or anything. Just going to see a film and then have a quiet meal together. But it is special to me. It’s often the simple things that count in life. Every month I look forward to these evenings, just the two of us sharing each others company. I do love his company. I smile in anticipation for the evening ahead. I smile at the thought of a great film, the latest with Julia Roberts in it. I smile at the thought of a candlelit dinner, beautiful food, beautiful ambience and the most beautiful person to share it with.

“Don’t mind the skeletal remains of me when you emerge from the bathroom!”

“I know she loves the sunrise, no longer see it with her sleepy eyes” I sing, which is better than saying ‘Shut up you impatient man!’ any day.

*   *   *

Helen lays in a pool of blood, face down. Even from behind she looks beautiful. From any angle she looks beautiful. Looked beautiful. Damn it! I have to start using the past tense to describe her. I have to say that she had the greatest laugh and that she was the most positive person I had ever known. Always smiling, always happy to see me. Boy it was nice, coming home to her smiling face. The face of an angel. Crystal blue eyes that led into eternity. But now she only was the love of my life. Right now, she’s a corpse, laying on this god-forsaken street in the middle of the night. A tear dribbles down my face as I think about the injustice at it all.

What had Helen done to anyone? I wish someone was here to answer me that. I wish that the Almighty decided that this was the day he would show himself to mankind, just so I could question him on this decision. The tears are coming in floods now. I can’t turn her body over, fearful that her crystal eyes will be glazed over and her angel face contorted in terror. I can’t even touch her because I know that, if I did, she would be cold, lifeless, not how I wanted to remember her. It wasn’t how she would want to be remembered either. She’d want me to move on, meet other people, be happy.

I chuckle to myself, at the memory of Helen and at the absurdity of moving on. Over time it may be a reality, me finding someone of Helen’s equal and settling down. Right now it seemed impossible. I wasn’t even planning on moving. I just wanted to sit here, sit with Helen forever. But the fear of being shot is a very good at motivating the most stubborn of people.

*   *   *

The film wasn’t very good, the company was. I guess that’s the great thing about seeing a film with someone you love. When the plot starts to dip you can just cuddle up to the person next to you and create your own entertainment. And we were entertaining ourselves through most of the two hours. Maybe we can create our own reviewing system: the percentage of time spent cuddling up with the person next to you.

“What are you thinking about?” Taylor asks, always the curious one.

“Looking forward to this meal” I reply. I don’t what to tell him that I was wondering how it’d be possible to measure how long you spent not watching the film. Would hand-holding count?

I shiver. It is getting dark earlier now, being winter and all. The streets also seem to funnel all the wind down the one road, freezing you quicker than should be expected. Taylor’s arm around me tightens and I’m dragged into his warm body. Not only an entertainment machine but also a heating unit. Boy does this guy surprise me. I smile for about the billionth time this evening. Taylor has always liked my smile. He says it reminds him of an angel and I remind him that he has never seen an angel. At that point he’ll smile himself and say that no angel would set foot in our apartment for fear of being outshone by my beauty. Always the charmer. I smile some more, thanking the heavens that I’m here tonight, next to the man I love. Also next to the restaurant. I’m starving!

*   *   *

I thought he had gone. I figured that after shooting Helen he would flee, both the police and any vengeance that I would rain down upon him. But he had remained, a menacing shadow standing above me. He must still have his gun, he’d only used three shots for Helen, so depending on the make he had at least three more for me, maybe more. I didn’t wait to find out. Although I’m usually a curious guy, the risk of dying tended to drain that out of me. I would have liked to know who the killer was but I was not going to be the cat that let it’s curiosity kill it. Scrambling to my feet, I flee down the street. I never once turned my head back, that would slow me down.

On and on I run, never dropping in pace. I don’t know how I was doing it, probably adrenaline. Maybe it was the numbness I already felt at Helen’s death stopping me from feeling any pain. I don’t question it. I just run. After several minutes, I didn’t count exactly how many, I begin to slow. I never heard a noise behind me, no heavy breathing or footsteps that weren’t my own. So I stop, prepare to continue if he remained behind me, and peer back. Only a dark empty street greeted me. This didn’t mean anything. He could have hidden behind the corner and was now waiting for me to double back and find Helen again. He might have travelled a different route and was now sneaking up behind me the other way. I spin around to make sure. No murderer, not even a moth attracted by streetlights. I was alone. Alone and lost.

Scanning my surroundings I realised that the previous judgement was false. I wasn’t ‘lost’ at all. Oddly, although I guess my body took me here as a source of comfort, I was in my neighbourhood, less than a hundred metres from my apartment. Our apartment. Just because Helen wasn’t here didn’t mean that the place didn’t belong to her as well. And right now it was my safe haven, the place I needed to be. I could get my head together, call the police, grieve. I needed to be home, so home is where I went. I look over my shoulder to make sure the shooter wasn’t waiting for me.

*   *   *

The restaurant was stunning. We try to go to a different restaurant each month, trying to try new things. Occasionally we’d not be bothered and would go to a restaurant that we’d been to before and really loved. Tonight wasn’t like that. This was an Italian restaurant, run by an Italian family. It was very small-scale but this gave it the perfect amount of atmosphere but privacy as well.

“You’d think that after all these years we’d run out of things to say to each other” Taylor says. I finish my mouthful before speaking. I forgot to say: the food is exquisite.

“Not with you being a writer. You’re the master of words”

“And yet I can’t find the words to describe your beauty”

I smile. What a corny, but very very sweet line. I can feel my face blush bright red and look down into my plate of pasta. Taylor can see my reaction and he laughs, a small chuckle. It always brightens my spirits when I hear that chuckle.

“You’d also think that after all these years you’d let me complement you with becoming embarrassed”

I wasn’t embarrassed at the compliment, I was embarrassed at how cheesy the line was. I don’t tell him this of course, but I don’t lie. I just look at him and smile, then get back to my food. The night wears on and the conversation stays perfect, conversations often do when you’ve been married so long and know what your partner is thinking. The pasta becomes slightly colder but not enough to spoil our evening.

*   *   *

It hit me like a bombshell sending me reeling to the floor in more floods of tears. I was home now. I thought I would be safe here. Physically yes, I was safe. The gunman could probably fire through the window but to do so he would have to climb three stories. He appeared to just be a common mugger but people could do crazy things to avoid witnesses. I had moved far away from the windows just in case. He wouldn’t kill me here. Yet I was on the floor, in pain. Surrounding the room were pictures of us, of Helen. She looked happy, her smiling faces were staring at me. What would once have been happy memories had warped into taunting images of what we should have had if fate hadn’t been so cruel. It was then that the emotion hit me, crippling me and sending me to the carpeted floor. I hadn’t let it out before, hadn’t felt that I could. Now, in familiar surroundings, it all exploded out of me.

Grief, anger, love, all escaping at once in a mess. My body couldn’t cope and betrayed me. As I lie on this floor, memories of our times together swim through my mind. We were here, in this room, just a few hours ago, talking about the trivial things that mattered at that time. It all happened so suddenly. One moment she was laughing at my joke, probably a lame one but she always liked to make me feel special. The next moment she was on the floor. Not a second to think, not a second to comprehend what had just happened. But now I was comprehending it all at once.

My mind was flashing forward, picturing a life without Helen. A life without her happy singing voice in a morning. She used to sing Jack Johnson songs to herself whilst getting ready to go out. A life without her comforting words when I felt my writing wasn’t working. She’d always have kind words to say about the most awful of my poems and the worst selling of my novels. A world without her kiss.

I stop myself, stomach tightening with emotion. I’ll never kiss her again. I’ll never feel those soft ruby lips touch mine ever again. I’ll never hold her body to mine. I’ll never see her smile. My eyes examine our house, full of things that would give up just to hold her one more time. I try to remember the last thing I said to her. I think I asked her what she wanted to eat tomorrow. I close my eyes, to shut out the world. A world I don’t want to be part of. Not without Helen.

*   *   *

If you had told me that the evening would have been ruined five minutes ago I would not have believed you. I would have dismissed you as crazy and told you that nothing in the entire world would have ruined the evening we were having. Which was a very naive thing to say. There are an awfully lot of things in the world and I’m sure that at least one of them would have ruined our evening if it tried. I would have been tempting fate by even thinking that. Maybe that’s why I stand here now, facing down the barrel of a gun.

“Give me your money!” he had screamed. He seems frightened, kind of weird considering that he holds the gun and I hold a handbag full of make-up. He had had the element of surprise as well. We were just talking about what our plans were for tomorrow. Taylor wanted to order some Chinese food in, I wanted to cook. Guess that says something about my cooking. We weren’t expecting anyone on these streets at this time of night, especially not a crazed gunman. I feel like I’m in a batman comic, but we have no son to become a caped crusader at the sight of our deaths. That might explain why I don’t feel scared as Taylor removes my purse from my handbag and starts to remove his wallet from his trousers. It just seems too surreal, like a children’s adventure story. When we get home I’ll probably break down in tears when it hits me that we could have died here. The money isn’t really a problem, Taylor sells enough books to keep us living a comfortable lifestyle. It’s a shame that this event has ended a perfectly good evening.

I look across to Taylor. He seems to be in a stand-off with the gunman. Taylor can’t give him the money unless he steps a few steps towards him but it doesn’t seem that the gunman wants this kind of closeness in their relationship. Bad planning I guess. You’d think that if someone was going to do this they would have figured things like this out. Eventually he tells Taylor to throw the two items down onto the ground, something that Taylor quickly does. I should note that for the future. When I want Taylor to take out the rubbish I’ll threaten him with a gun.

“Don’t move.” The gunman shouts. Obviously he isn’t a man of words, but we have to follow his monosyllabic commands or risk a bullet in the chest. We stand there silently as he bends down towards the money. Neither me or Taylor look worried, we’re both smiling and he still has his arm around me, protectively now. The night air is cold and the wind hasn’t relented at all during the evening. The gunman has reached the wallet and the purse and has shoved them into his trouser pockets. I shiver, the chilly night air cutting through me. As if by instinct Taylor hugs me closer.

*   *   *

I hear a key turn in my lock. I don’t know how long I’ve been blocking out the world and I’m not sure if the sound I heard was real. Probably just my tired brain playing tricks on me. Then the door to my, our, apartment opens. Someone is here. Only me and Helen have a key. Unless, oh my god! The gunman could have gone back and searched Helen to find her key. He could be here now, ready to kill the last witness to his crime. My body suddenly fights all grief and I quickly and quietly pull myself up and pin myself against a wall, shielding myself from the intruder. I wait and listen.

The only sound coming from the doorway is crying, a soft sobbing. Killers don’t cry. Listen to me, my wife is shot down and suddenly I’m an expert on killers. Maybe guilt has caught up on him and he’s crying over the loss of Helen. The bastard deserves no sympathy, no matter how much he regrets his actions. Anger floods into me and I almost step out to the door to confront the Angel of Death himself but my actions are halted by the sound of the door slamming shut. Footsteps are coming my way and I stop breathing.

A soft feminine figure steps into the main living area, tears running down her beautiful angel face. Helen. But it can’t be. Helen is dead, I watched her get shot and saw her dead body. I know this, but my mind is in denial. It is creating images of my love to ease the blow that her loss will cause it. This Helen isn’t really. Although her body and face look angelic enough, her embrace will be non-existent. She is air, imaginary. But I can’t help but cry out to her.

“Helen?”

She doesn’t reply. She just sits and holds herself, crying. That settles it. If this was the real Helen then she would have looked up. She would have seen my face and would have glided over to me and held me in her soft, elegant arms. She would have smiled her winning smile. This pseudo-Helen didn’t even seem to hear me, she just sat there crying. She was just an impostor created by my brain. I needed some water, both to drink and to splash on my face. I needed to clear my mind. I needed to get the blood of my loved one off my hands.

*   *   *

I don’t know what the gunman saw in my shiver or in Taylor’s protective hug. In his paranoid mind we could be plotting to charge him and steal our money back, using his gun against him. We could be using a phone to secretly ring the police. Whatever the gunman thought we were doing he wasn’t happy about it. His mouth curled into a half-smile, half-snarl and he raised his gun at our chests. I heard the first bang extremely loud, like the heaven cracking open. I’d always thought that I would not be that bothered by gunfire after all the action films that I’ve seen but the real thing was so, well, real. I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember hearing two more gunshots fill the quiet night air.

*   *   *

The bathroom seemed claustrophobic, the shadows were haunting. But I wasn’t going to stay here long. I just needed the blood off my hands and some water on my face. The cool touch of it would help me think and when I went back to the living room the imaginary Helen would be gone. Only memories would remain. I reached for the tap, reached for relief. My fingers stopped and I noticed something that terrified me.

Above our sink we have a mirror. Every morning Helen is found in front of it, applying make-up to an already perfect face and brushing her silken black hair. I would often sneak in behind her, half my shirt on, and hug her and hold her from behind. She would smile and lean back into my arms. The two of us together created a picture of happiness in that mirror. But that image had gone now, the two of us would never fill this mirror together again. What should have been there now was an image of sadness. A man with red bloodshot, an image of pure unhappiness. But nothing was there. Only a reflection of the room behind me. My face wasn’t staring back at me.

I close my eyes. This must be my drained mind again, playing stupid games on me. I would open my eyes and see myself like I should. I’ll probably look tired, drained, but at least I’ll be there. I open my eyes and tiles stare back at me. Where was I? Why was I not shown in the mirror? My breathing is getting heavier, I’m starting to panic. What is going on?!

An icy hand on my shoulder stops all thoughts. A deep voice behind me announces a fact.

“It is time”

My mind doesn’t understand what the voice is saying. Well, I understand the words, but not the meaning. What is it time for? I ask the voice this.

“Time for what?”

“You know” it answers cryptically.

The voice seems certain that I should know what it is time for. But I don’t. My mind is such a mess I hardly feel I know anything right now. I wrench my shoulder free of the icy grip and turn to face the intruder. I would tell them that I didn’t have a clue about what it was time for. And I turned, and I found out that I did know what it was time for. My mouth opened in shock, then contorted into a face of acceptance. I couldn’t fight the inevitable. Before me stood the dark shadowy figure from before. But now I could see his face. It was a skull. It’s eyes and mouth seem to be grinning at me but I guess that’s just his neutral expression. If this was who I thought it was, then I would have to follow him. I needed a way to make sure though. Maybe he was another figment of a shattered imagination.

“Look down” he commands, sensing my thoughts.

So I do look down and the sight confirms everything. In the front of my body are three bullet holes, seeping with crimson blood.

*   *   *

Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! The world seems to swirl around me, everything happening so fast. I fall to the ground trying to hold on to it. Maybe if I can grab the pavement I can stop things spiraling out of control. Maybe I can go back and stop him. Stop the gunshots.

He is long gone now. He has scared himself, didn’t believe he could fire one shot, let alone three. Now it is just me and Taylor. But Taylor isn’t Taylor anymore. He’s a lifeless shell where life once lived. What am I going to do? In five short seconds my whole life, Taylor was my whole life, has been ripped away from me. I never realised how fragile it all was. I never realised that it could be taken away so...so easily.

I have no control over my body now, my emotions have taken over. It shivers with sadness but there is no Taylor to hold me closer. So I hug him. Not worrying about the crimson blood that lines his shirt I kneel down beside him and hold him close to me. He is still warm but the last breathes of life are draining quickly from him. A single tear drops from my eye, a sign of things to come. And I lay here, motionless.

I love you Taylor.

Sofa Thoughts

The house has finally become quiet. People have stopped walking about upstairs which directly leads to floorboards not creaking anymore. All I can hear is nice, relaxing, two-in-the-morning music coming from my laptop and my own breathing.

It's great!

An odd side effect of going home is that I don't get a whole bunch of time to think. My holidays are always so short (surely most people think this?) that I spend my time dashing from one event to the other. I'm with my family discussing the merits of foreign films. Then I'm with my friends, catching up at the pub or chilling at five in the morning on a sofa, with early-morning TV for background noise. Then I'm out for a meal. Or out partying. Or out shopping. Or just out.

All of this leads me with very little time for me, time to contemplate where my life is going or who I am.

Except for right now, at half two in the morning. At this time I can lie back on the sofa, music for company, and just go into my head. I'm not saying 'my head' is always a place worth going. In fact, more often than not, it is a lame place to go. But it is nice to have the opportunity.

In fact, the past week I've been dreaming a whole bunch. Really crazy stuff and very vivid. In one dream, I've started a new school and get lost because the halls are so big. In another, I take the wrong train, but don't panic because my friends are bound to ring me when they see I'm missing. After all, it's my birthday. They don't ring, but I never know why.

In one, I've joined a band as a drummer, but I don't know how to drum. And they only give me cymbals! In one, I'm flirting with a beautiful girl and she whispers something in my ear. I still can't remember the identity of the girl or what she said, but it lurks on the edge of my mind.

In another dream, I'm being pursued my a black figure through the streets of Victorian London. Yet, I swear as I'm running that I know the person chasing me and that I shouldn't be scared.

I wonder, perhaps, if this is my mind catching up with self-reflection that I should be doing during the day. More likely, it's the offshoot of having too much to think about.

It really is about time I get to bed and tune back into my dreams. Maybe they'll continue, like a TV show, and I can find out why my friends left me, who the girl was or what is chasing me.

Maybe, I've wasted my dreaming ammo, by going inside my head right now. Only one way to find out.

Good night.

:)

http://mrana.deviantart.com/art/Lonely-Teddy-67619660

Manic Monday (Egg)

Today's Manic Monday Word: Egg.

The egg is the most underappriciated food of our current times. There it sits, all round and cool, whilst we forget its very existence. We eat something else or, when we do eat it, we do so with such horrifying apathy.

So from this moment, let us give the egg the attention it deserves. A food so versatile that it can be fried, boiled or scrambled. A food capable of making things as diverse as an omelette or a chocolate cake.

The egg can be used as a weapon, capable of causing maximum messiness. It can be used as a decoration, painted bright and with smily faces.

And at Easter, that sacred time of year, eggs become chocolate and brings smiles to the faces of little kids everywhere.

So here's to eggs. The greatest food ever*.

*After sandwiches. And pie. And cookies.**

**Okay. Let's just say its pretty good. Top twenty at least.***

***And it's easy to spell.

:D

http://cronobreaker.deviantart.com/art/Mmmm-Eggs-19765519

An Easter Fable

Once upon a time, in a land half way across the world, a man died on a cross. Now, it isn't often that a story begins with a death, but this isn't your average story. Unfortunately, it's also going to end in a death.

His life had been pretty damn exciting. He'd fed people bread and fish, cured lepers and healed a man's ear. But on this day his father, who was a rather important person, decided that he had to die. So he was nailed to a cross, passed away and then put into a cave.

For three days he remained dead. Most people manage this feat, but on the third day the man got bored of being dead and sprang back to life. 'Sprang' may be the wrong word, however, because, if you have ever tried coming back from the dead, it really isn't an easy feat. People don't tend to be in a springy mood right afterwards.

Anyway, he came back to life. There was a huge rock in front of the cave, but with an amazing act of might, he pushed it out of the way. Stepping out into the sun, he found himself in a sprawling desert. Lost, hot, confused and only just alive, the man was in a world of trouble.

Unsure of which way to go, he just kept walking forward. On and on he travelled, stumbling forward towards a goal unknown. But soon the heat got to him and the tiredness got to him and he tripped. He hit the sand hard and didn't get up.

He was dying again, which kind of made his reincarnation a bit pointless. But as his mind began to drift from the world of the living, he felt a small nudge against his nose. His eyes peeled open and just in front of him sat a rabbit.

The rabbit was called Joe, but since it couldn't speak English no-one would ever know. It twitched its nose at the man in a 'follow me' gesture. Buoyed by the knowledge that another living creature was living out in the desert, the man pushed himself painfully to his feet.

The rabbit bounced and the man stepped, and together they travelled across the desert. Soon, they arrived at the rabbit's house. Because this was the olden days, the rabbit lived in a large house that the man could fit in, not a tiny hole that would make story-telling difficult.

The rabbit motioned towards a chair and the man took a seat. In front of him were several brown eggs, made from chocolate. Because the man hadn't eaten anything since he had come alive, the man quickly gobbled them down. And as he finished his second egg, the rabbit came back into the room with a map.

To cut a long story slightly shorter, the man took the remaining eggs and the map and found his 12 friends. They rejoiced in the fact that he was still alive and the thirteen of them ate chocolate eggs into the early hours of the morning.

Elsewhere, in the rabbit's home, his housemate entered the kitchen. She had just woken from a long sleep. She had been in labour for the last three years, which may seem like a long time, but chocolate ducks stay pregnant longer than any other animal in the world.

She was incredibly happy, because today was the day her chocolate eggs were going to hatch into tiny chocolate ducklings. What she would find in the kitchen eventually led to her suicide.

The moral of the story: People shouldn't come back from the dead.

:D

http://endien.deviantart.com/art/Happy-Easter-80727566

21+1

My toothbrush sang to me this morning.

Also, I'm currently typing this next to a dancing penguin called Wilson.

If this is what being an adult is like, its weird!

:S

http://madhatter-penguin.deviantart.com/art/A-penguin-with-a-hat-7832985

Five On Friday: Best Entrances

When a character arrives into a film, it has to be so carefully planned. That entrance, in the first minute, the first seconds even, has to tell you everything you really need to know about that character.

Here are five that do it exceptionally well, in no particular order.

*CONTAINS SPOILERS*

Harry Lime
(The Third Man)

I feel you really need the build-up to this entrance, but maybe it might stand on its own. The whole film follows the main character discovering what really happened to his friend Harry Lime. The whole film implies that he is dead. Then, about two thirds of the way in, he turns up in an alley, with that knowing grin.

Right up there with "I am your father", and a whole lot more noir-like.

Jessica Rabbit
(Who Framed Roger Rabbit)

Sticking with the noir theme, we have Mrs Rabbit. Not only does the dance prove that cartoons can be sexy, the whole thing is one long joke; how can Roger Rabbit be married to her?!

She is also the epitome of a femme fatale: red dress, flowing red hair and half-cut cocktail dress.

Ace Ventura
(Ace Ventura: Pet Detective)

One entrance that sets up a character perfectly. He's funny, rude and in the end he rescues a dog. What more do you need to know about Ace?

But it is Jim Carrey that perfects this introduction with his brilliant slapstick energy and comic timing. Hilarious!

President Bartlet
(The West Wing - Pilot)

Come on! It had to be there.

Like Harry Lime, the President has been mentioned throughout the episode. However, it isn't until the end that he comes striding (Well, limping) into the White House, quotes some bibles, verbal chastises some Christians and orders some coffee, all with such authority and verbal elegance that writers everywhere curse their luck that they didn't write his opening speech.

Jack Sparrow
(Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl)

It seems like there isn't a video for this but, unlike the others above, I assume that most people have caught onto the 'Pirates' phenomenon and have therefore seen how Mr. Sparrow enters.

There he is, on the mast of a ship, the sun behind him and the wind in his hair. The perfect heroic entrance. Which is all perfectly underplayed when he jumps down to reveal a tiny rowboat. A tiny rowboat that is sinking.

Because the character could be, should be, heroic, but really he is just a mess. Nice metaphor there.

Runners Up

Jack Sparrow (POTC: Dead Man's Chest) - Almost as good as his first entrance, but not original anymore.
Temperance Brennan (Bones - Pilot) - She gets to be sexy, beat up some guys and still be a leading scientist.
John Doe (Se7en) - Walking into a police station covered in blood. Awesome! Made even better by Kevin Spacey.
Leonardo (TMNT) - Ok, maybe an odd choice. But it was once of the scenes that stood out in a rather lame film. And one of the first times I've seen a 'Ninja' Turtle behave even remotely ninja-like.
Angel (Angel - City Of) - Ok, more of a re-entrance, but David Boreanaz plays the humorous drunk and the kick-ass vampire slayer so well, it deserved some kind of mention. See also his entrance in "Conviction", which kind of plays off this initial one.

So do you agree with the list? Have others to add? Let me know by sending a stamped addressed envelope somewhere. Or just click that comment button.

:D

21

Today, I am 21.

Today, I am an adult.

Today, I've got to stop messing around on the metaphorical swings of life, start wearing a metaphorical tie and start making actual decisions.

But maybe I'll do all that tomorrow because today I've got meals to eat, bowling balls to bowl and drinks to drink.

Today, I'm going to celebrate!

:D

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38442961@N00/366805687/

Mmmm Productivity

I have officially started my dissertation, entitled "World Without Words: The 2007/8 Writers' Strike and its Impact on the Industry". I technically "officially" started it yesterday, but that was a whole bunch of reading and very few words. Then, Jess finally got a proper word processing program and I figured I'd start again.

Out of 6000 words, I've written...actually, I refuse to check. If I word count the whole thing it will be the equivalent of looking at a clock in the last hour of work. If I check, it'll take ages. But I've written a hefty number of words this morning. Enough that I deserve a blogging break.

Unfortunately, this is all I really have to say because this is all I've really done.

But tomorrow folks, tomorrow the party begins!

:D

http://anti-otaku.deviantart.com/art/Busy-11569698

Adult-Lite

The past few days, usually around mid-afternoon, I've been getting really hungry. I've been craving some kind of giant sandwich, with bacon, sausages, chicken, all of it. Just something BIG!

It occurred to me today that this hunger could be down to my unusual eating habits I adopt whilst living on my own. Even when I wake at nine for lectures, it is often four in the afternoon when I first eat something. It's a breakfast, lunch and dinner all combined. Then, a second meal usually gets served about eleven in the evening.

Say what you like about this eating system, and I know it isn't healthy at all, but it works for my life. Sure, I could wake early and grab some cereal. But my brain ranks sleep over food.

So now that I'm back at home, meal time become less fluid and I'm getting in the mood to snack around the time I'm usually eating a bigger meal. I'm not used to the proper adult approach of three meals at set times.

And this isn't the only adult thing I haven't got the hang of yet. I still can't do a weekly shop because I end up eating it all in the wrong order and letting expensive stuff go out of date. But how can I decide what I want to eat in three days time?!

I don't wash clothes regularly, like sense would like me to. Instead, everything gets worn and thrown into a basket. Then, when I'm down to the old jeans that don't fit and the top that says "I think, therefore I'm single" (Which I do own actually. It was a gift.), I bulk wash and everything becomes fresh and sparkling in the same two day period. This really isn't the best way to do it, and I think this every time I do it. Yet, nothing changes.

Budgeting has always been a problem. I still get excited when money gets put into my account that I go out and spend it on all sorts of exciting shiny objects and things that I really don't need. Then, at the month's end, I eat cold beans out of a tin to save on gas.

I don't get how adults manage the whole getting up early thing either. Because I always have such good intentions around eleven in the evening, but there is always more stuff I could be doing. I could be online, talking to people. I could be writing scripts. I could watch another episode of [insert whatever TV show I'm watching at the time]. It just seems like such a waste to get into bed. It seems like I'm surrendering to the Sandman.

Sure, the next morning, after I've slept through four alarms (I have four!) and still feel groggy, I sorta regret it. And yet, the evening all the morning memories have faded and I continue to talk/write/watch until the early hours. It's like how pregnant women forget the pain, to allow them to have more children. But bad for me!

And these are just the tip of the iceberg. I would know how to replace a fuse if it blew. Or anything electrical. I'm still rubbish at tuning TVs. I don't know how to vote in elections. I can't cook pasta. Or anything, unless I have a packet that tells me step-by-step what I need to do.

I don't own more than two plates or more than two cups, so would be rubbish if I wanted to invite people over. I don't even have tea or coffee for such events. My room still looks like it did when I was ten (Read: Messy).

All of this, and more, is made all the worse by the fact that in just over twenty-four hours I'm turning twenty-one. Which means I'm being pushed, against my will, into the world of adults. I'll be expected to eat properly and change fuses and own tea and coffee.

I'm not ready for that! Can we not say, right now, that people become adults at 25? Or 30? Because maybe then I'll be a little closer to knowing what I'm doing. Perhaps I'll even be able to whip up a simple meal.

That cool? Great. So soon, I'll be turning twenty-one-teen.

It doesn't seem sound bad now.

:D

http://www.explosm.net/comics/1160/

No Tree-Climbing For Me

Quick Note: It seems my dreams of combining tree-climbing and work must stay on hold for the time being, as Jess has the battery power of a small incontinent child (i.e. not a whole bunch).

Also, she doesn't like to warn people when she is about to switch herself off, which is all fine and dandy unless I'm typing up the first few words of my dissertation and she wipes it all.

WHICH SHE DID!

Bad Jessica!

:(

Entering The Techno-Age

This may seem like a normal blog. You will see the same letters and words that appear in every other blog, under the same web address and using the same font. In fact, I could have typed this with you being none the wiser.

But this blog is a landmark: it is the first one typed on my brand new laptop. I could say that it is the first one typed on a laptop in general, but many of those already exist. The ones that I typed at Emma's were all laptop fiction. But this is the first piece of writing coming from a laptop that belongs to me.

I call her Jessica. Because it sounds like a professional name, like someone who would be able to spend time doing work but is never too serious. And when she wants to let her hair down, she can be Jess and party the night away with 'Spider Solitaire'.

OK, right now Jess isn't all that advanced. She hasn't got 'Word' or 'Publisher' or 'Excel'. So she is fairly basic with what she can do right now. She isn't the dumbest kid in class though, because at least she's trying.

And what Jess allows me is freedom. Right now, I'm laid vertically (Well, almost) on a sofa, half-watching "Real Time With Bill Maher", some political chat show from America that I've only just discovered. And in some weird ironic twist, Josh Lyman (Real name: Bradley Whitford) from the 'West Wing' is on it discussing politics.

Jess means I can write on trains and in cars and in cafes whilst drinking coffee. I don't drink coffee, but now I've got Jess, I feel like I should start. I could climb a tree and write up there.

Sure, I could have done all of this before, with a pad and pen. I could have gone climbing trees, watched political shows or started to drink coffee, whilst scribbling out the next great novel with a Biro and some A4 paper. And yet, there seems to be something more, well, work-like to typing even the smallest of the thoughts onto a computer.

Also, whenever I want to write up a new idea, I can never find a pen.

But now, with Jess by my side, I can type up scripts and stories and treatments. Also, I can type blogs and access the Internet. Never will I ever have to send a rushed text to Emma saying "Can you log on a post a blog for me, please." again.

With Jess, nothing and no-one can stop me!

:D

http://tarikt.deviantart.com/art/Laptop-44738642

Manic Monday (Drink)

Manic Monday word of the day: Drink.

"You know what? I really, really love you. You know that right?"
Caution: Alcohol may make you very, very friendly. A bit too friendly, some may say. But all they need is a hug, so go ahead. Show them some love!

"Hey! Look at me! See what I'm doing. Over here! Look!"
Caution: Alcohol may make you think that whatever you are doing right this second is the most important thing EVER. In the world. It isn't. Get down from that chair. Stop flailing your arms about like you think you can dance. Sit. Shut up. Relax. You're not any cooler than you were three drinks ago.

"In no drunk. In Tony Sober!"
Caution: Under the influence of alcohol, your garbled mess of letters that you have just entered into your phone will seem like a prize-winning essay. It isn't. Don't be surprised when the recipient replies with 'huh?' or 'what?' or 'someone has had a few too many, you big drunk!'.

"Owww!"
Caution: Alcohol can lead to hangovers which can lead to a whole world of pain. The only sensible way to solve this problem is to never stop drinking.

:P

http://ghost-of-nothing.deviantart.com/art/Drink-Me-59038406

The Dinosaur That Survived Extinction

Once upon a time, a long time ago (well, the story does involve dinosaurs) there lived a dinosaur called Katie. Well, she wasn't called Katie at the time, as dinosaurs very rarely gave names beyond growls, but Katie she would become and so we shall know her as that.

Katie was a curious dinosaur and she would often break off from her pack to explore her surroundings. She would tread along beaches and head into dark caves, just because.

One day, that one fateful day, she was busy exploring a cliff side cavern when a meteor hit. It was devastating and killed pretty much everything that was on the planet. Except crocodiles. And Katie.

She emerged from the cavern unscathed and very confused. Where had everyone gone?

The reptiles soon filled her in and she got on with her life. At first, she enjoyed the freedom that everyone being dead gave her. She could skip meals and freely prance around till the early hours of the morning. She didn't even have to worry about those pesky carnivores because they had all died when the comet hit.

But soon, humans arrived and made her life a whole bunch more complicated. At first, she revelled in the fact that she had new friends. She skipped along and introduced herself. But, to them, it came out as a roar and the humans were terrified.

They threw sticks and spears at her, driving her into isolation. There she sat, back in the cavern that helped her survive, alone and frightened. She cried dinosaur tears and curled herself in a ball.

Katie died there, I'm sorry to say. Abandoned by her dinosaur friends and persecuted by the humans she tried to befriend, she hid away, too afraid to leave to get food or water. She eventually starved to death.

But for just £3 a month, you can help dinosaurs like Katie. Your £3 will go towards dinosaur morsels, so she will never have to leave her cave. It will go towards a nationwide education programme that will reeducate the nation about the REAL threat from dinosaurs.

The media portrays dinosaurs as evil, bloodthirsty creatures and with your money we hope to reverse the damage that films such as 'Jurassic Park' and the programme 'Primeval' have done to dinosaur/human relations.

For just £3, you will be changing so many lives for the better. Katie thanks you.

:D

http://nichalia.deviantart.com/art/Baby-Zalkava-23440287

Picture Bookmarks

I've just spent the last two hours typing out a blog and trying to format it correctly, but it just won't let me. So I''ve taken that as a sign, and instead you get pretty pictures.

For the boys:

And for the girls:

:P

http://osy057.deviantart.com/art/Girl-29138792

http://shley77.deviantart.com/art/Really-Sexy-Guy-2380470

Home Sweet Home

I really don't know at what point my definition of 'home' will change. I've been living away from my parents for three years now yet today, when I've come back for the holidays, I still feel like I'm returning to where I belong.

Although, in two weeks when I travel back to Leeds, I'll only feel like I belong there. Is it possible to think of more than one place as your home?

Perhaps, after I become an adult (in the long distant future) and I buy my own house with a mortgage, that only belongs to me or whoever my partner is at the time, maybe then I'll feel truly home.

Or, on a more pessimistic note, perhaps I'm destined to never feel like no place is home, to roam forever as a nomad, settling wherever I could find a bed. That doesn't sound so bad, really. I bit eccentric. And I do like the image of myself as an eccentric writer.

So, after a fairly long train journey, I am now back at (one of my) home(s). I'll be sorting out my head, writing a treatment and a dissertation, becoming twenty-one, drinking copious amounts of alcohol and generally chilling.

It's going to be awesome!

:D

http://gnato.deviantart.com/art/Home-25803051

Shopping

I hate clothes shopping. When I enter the shop, I feel that the staff's eyes are judging my style. Everywhere I go, they are watching me.

Freaks me out a little bit.

:(

Http://cozyfire.deviantart.com/art/Charlotte-goes-shopping-10068782

Homework

"I'd like you to write a treatment for your script. It is brief, only 12 - 16 pages for a feature film"

Honestly, I believe this is a gross misuse of the word 'only', from a writing tutor no less! Not only that, but the whole sentence is bordering on lies. I've written 11 pages so far and haven't even finished the first act.

We usually work on a 1:2:1 scale for a script, so if I get to 15 pages in the first act, which seems very likely right now, then I'm potentially writing another 49 pages!

The deadline is tomorrow.

So, let me stop writing here and instead direct my attention back to my work and your attention to other things.

Some new Wall-E trailers have been released. The American and International ones are different and can both be found here.

For a funny dwarf-related story, try here.

For more Calvin and Hobbes (the two in the cartoon above), try here.

Have a good Wednesday. I'll see you tomorrow.

:D

Supermarket Etiquette

Think of this blog as a public service annoucement to everyone and anyone who walks into a supermarket. Because I swear, you can be the smartest person the world has ever known and when you walk through the entrance to where I work, you become an idiot. Pay attention!

• It is okay to let go of your trolley once in a while. Because even if someone wanted to steal it, they'll still have to go through the tills. So stop trying to manouver your shopping into a crowd of people to pick something off the shelves. Let it go. Walk to the shelf. Walk back. The trolley will still be there!


• I don't care if you feel the price is too expensive. This cannot be stated enough. I don't care! I have absolutely no input in the pricing of the food that I put out and even if I did, I'd only tell you that the price is going to stay the same. It's the way the world works. Prices go up and prices go down. If you don't care when something goes three pence down in price, you can't care when it goes up by the same amount.


• On the same note: We aren't trying to screw you. There is no big conspiricy to crank up the prices so that you are paying ridiculous amounts because we know that you can very easily go elsewhere. Also, we don't deliberately sell out of popular brands so that you buy our own stuff. We will always have Heinz Beans and always have Coca Cola.


• When I smile and say "Sorry for the wait", I'm told to say this. Unless I made a mistake, there really isn't anything I could have done to speed up the last transaction. You should have got there sooner.


• If I'm tidying and you take an item, do not (I repeat, DO NOT) say "Haha. Sorry for ruining your display" or any varient. You aren't sorry, otherwise you would pull something forward to fill the gap. You are also not original or funny. I may chuckle on the outside, but inside I have died a little.


• Don't tell your kids that I will kick them out of the shop if they don't behave. Because I won't. Their misbehavior is keeping me entertained.


• If you are fat and buying cream cakes (or anything along that vein), I'm going to judge you. On the outside I won't be saying anything, but every part of my inside wants to refuse you service.


• No, I'm not going to reduce that item you have in your hand. If I was going to reduce it, I'm not now, because you want me to. Yes, I am that petty.


• If you want to stand around and talk to your friend that you haven't spoken to in oh so long, fine. But please don't do it in the middle of a busy aisle. Because two people and two trolleys take up space, but it will be me being blamed when I try to put stuff out near you and people can't get past.


• Don't get mad at me when I ask you for ID. Either you are old enough and look young, in which case you should be happy at your youthful features, or you aren't old enough, in which case you shouldn't even be trying to buy alcohol from me! I am in control of neither of these and therefore it is not my fault.

Hope you all feel educated now.

:D

http://loserromantik.deviantart.com/art/Lost-in-the-supermarket-67061107